


Tunnel Vision

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Brief Pining, Confessions, Crushes, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Infatuation, Is this a shoujo manga???, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 11:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Noun: Tunnel Vision-defective sight in which objects cannot be properly seen if not close to the centre of the field of view.-Informal:the tendency to focus exclusively on a single or limited objective or view."Ushijima Wakatoshi and his crush on his junior setter, Shirabu Kenjirou."





	Tunnel Vision

Wakatoshi is enraptured with his setter.

 

The bright lights of the gym, lemon white above their heads, slender fingers sending him perfect, arching spheres, the red-green-white blurring before they arrive before his palm, and Wakatoshi slams it down. The ball smashes against the floor with the loudest sound, amplified by the cavernous nature of the gym, explosive in comparison to gentle breaths and sneaker squeals.

 

“That was the last one Ushijima.” Shirabu softly reminds, wiping at the sweat with the back of a slender hand. “We need to lock up now.” Always so soft to Wakatoshi-Wakatoshi wonders why him of all people.

 

Wakatoshi turns, and sees, Shirabu; beautifully golden under the lights, his eyelashes and hair carefully catching white flame, the harsh light painting the high cheekbones and the tip of his upturned nose. Sweat trickles downwards, slipping over a sharp jawline and kissing down a slender neck, delicate lips parted as puffs of exhaustion escape.

 

How beautiful, Wakatoshi thinks. How beautiful Shirabu after practice is-always exceptionally beautiful, a honeyed being pattering around on court attached to a warming water bottle. Wakatoshi has been watching for a while; tiny peeks at that slender form with it’s long legs and pretty fingers, heard the biting, clever remarks and that dry, snappy wit. The first time Wakatoshi saw what was before him, he fumbled his serve the first time in his life.

 

Wakatoshi has been fumbling since third term of Shirabu’s first year, and now first term of Shirabu’s second, he still doesn’t know what to do with his first ever crush.

 

Shirabu is clever, making his way into Shiratorizawa on a academic scholarship, attractively intelligent, almost disturbingly so. Most people get into Shiratorizawa on a sports scholarship, and 2% of the school get in the way Shirabu did. That 2% spend the rest of their school life studying, but Shirabu studied hard for the exams and then promptly stopped once he got in. To play volleyball. Just to set to Wakatoshi.

 

(Kawanashi let slip that Shirabu changed his play style just to fit Wakatoshi. Months later, he still does not know how to feel about that.)

 

Shirabu can lazily recite all the formulas they will ever need, words falling like pearls from precious lips. Wakatoshi sees him reading textbooks for _fun_. On Sundays, Shirabu would do a brief review of the past week, before closing his books and go play volleyball, or race Kawanashi around the cross country track.

 

It is intimidating.

 

People call Wakatoshi intimidating, daunting-scary even-but Wakatoshi thinks Shirabu’s bored intellect is the most unnerving thing he has ever seen. Wakatoshi has a set of broad shoulders, thick biceps and muscles, but Shirabu has a brain that could take him anywhere, but he chose to stay in Miyagi and _play volleyball_ , instead of studying in Tokyo or abroad like most of Japan’s smartest students.

 

Shirabu, instead of following that natural, set-out, easy path, comes to a sport-focused school through academics, and becomes a regular barely a term into his first year of school.

 

Wakatoshi admires that so much, the drive that makes Shirabu work so hard-no one is born brilliant at volleyball, or any sport, one must work and work-even Bokuto Koutarou with his natural aptitude for volleyball and baseball has to work on different aspects of those sports to be as good as he is now. Wakatoshi has trained most of his life. Seeing someone who could sit back and take it easy decide to work hard anyway, makes Wakatoshi admire that person so much.

 

(He had a passing infatuation for Oikawa Tooru once, a lepton compared to this galaxy of emotion that he feels now, based on Wakatoshi’s admiration for people with that trait of perseverance. Now, Wakatoshi would throw Oikawa back to Aoba Johsai. Wakatoshi does his “come to Shiratorizawa” thing just to annoy Oikawa. if Oikawa ever did join Shiratorizawa, highly unlikely due to that ace of his, Wakatoshi would do all he could to get him kicked out-because Oikawa would replace Shirabu.

Yes, Oikawa is definitely better than Shirabu, but Shirabu’s tosses are special, and for Wakatoshi only. Wakatoshi likes to dedicate the entirety of himself to something. It's nice that in return someone will  devote themselves to him, and him alone. )

 

“Ushijima?” Shirabu asks, and Wakatoshi sees the sea-salt caramel of his eyes, the expanding dilation of his pupils swallowing that colour. A shining sweat-drop slips into those candied eyes, and Shirabu blinks, the jelly of his white disturbed by the sudden brine.

 

Wakatoshi, as Satori and Soekawa keep telling him, has been pining for a good year or so now.

 

What can he lose?

 

(everything, contact with Shirabu, no private tossing-spiking practise, losing that connection and those moments, the unfamiliar fear that shocked his body was jarring in that moment. At the thought of losing closeups of peachy-keen skin, Wakatoshi would tremble.)

 

He does it anyway.

 

He straightens his back and squares his shoulders like he does every time his mother and father are in the same room together, smoothes his face out.

 

“Shirabu. I have something to ask you.”

 

“What is it, Ushijima?” Shirabu slips the spout of his bottle from between the curve of his his lips to blink up at him through metallic lashes, unfailingly polite.

 

“I wish to date you. May we go out sometime?” Wakatoshi can hear the thudding of his heart, hot behind his ears, burning much more than the palm of his hand after a particularly hard spike.

 

Shirabu blinks again, and in slow motion he watches, in HD, in 4320p, those silky lashes fall against flushing cheeks. Shirabu’s pale skin flares into crimson, red blooming over his cheeks and ears and down his neck-and for the first time, he sees Shirabu at a lack of words, surprised and flustered.

 

How prettily Shirabu flushes, from the arch of his ears to his curving collarbones, what a vibrant, healthy colour, like a ripening peach, quickly spreading colour over every fuzzed surface.

 

Wakatoshi steps closer, resting his hands on Shirabu’s waist, tentative, nervous, Shirabu blinking as those taped, pretty fingers drop his bottle, reach for Wakatoshi’s jaw, cupping and caressing before pulling Wakatoshi in, those lips coming closer, that haloed head approaching. The bottle rolls away, Wakatoshi doesn’t care, and he feels the cliche of the world narrowing down to the two of them, where they touch, the mingling scent of their sweat, the warmth of Shirabu’s mouth, and the way Shirabu grasps weakly at Wakatoshi’s clinging adidas sweatshirt. Wakatoshi is concentrating, the way he does when they're at match point, on the gasp that Wakatoshi’s tongue stops, the quivering of those thighs, at some point Wakatoshi is stroking one hand over that swan-like nape, prettier than a geisha’s painted neck.

 

Wakatoshi’s good at kissing-he practised with girls and once, Eita. Shirabu seems to like the way Wakatoshi licks into his mouth and sucks on his lip, devouring, touching-when Wakatoshi pulls away and sees that almost obscene string of saliva stretching like a clothesline between them, Shirabu tries to pull him back again, gasping.

 

“That’s a yes, by the way.” Shirabu says, effortlessly lewd after a kiss, lips parted and red. Wakatoshi wants to press him into the floor and suck bruises onto that pale skin.

**Author's Note:**

> *finger guns*


End file.
